Isolation
by calebaren
Summary: Tony's not feeling so well. Always drunk. Always silent. Well, he was usually drunk anyways. But never silent. Never one to pass up a snarky comment. Steve/Tony, rating probably will change, pointless fluff in the middle if you don't mind. Plus HAWKWARD.
1. World's Greatest Hangover

Tony nursed a glass of cheap whiskey in his left hand and the bottle in his right. He looked into the bottle; there wasn't much left, but he didn't feel like finishing it. He downed it anyway. Booze and women took the edge off the wounds that refused to heal. Howard. Ten Rings. Steve's scathing comments. Though his nuke stunt earned him some form of respect from him, it would carry no lasting value. Steve was just being nice, that poor boy. He knew he was going to die, heading into that ice. He knew what it was like. He knew that that final sacrifice was nothing but just that: a simple sacrifice. Tony set the bottle on the counter, next to the other two. Sat on one of the high bar stools. Looked down at his hands. His vision was blurring. His balance was skewed. He needed to get to bed before he passed out. Tony cringed as he stumbled down the hall. Dammit, his peripheral was gone already. He tripped over nothing and landed hard on his forearm. Something cracked, but he felt nothing. Just self pity.

"Tony, why are you still-Oh God, call for help! Get Bruce up here," was the last thing that he heard before slipping under entirely.

* * *

Bright sunlight shot through the windows. Steve and Clint were in snoring in uncomfortable seats by the door. Tony grudgingly opened his eyes, squinting to block out the light. Soft linen sheets covered him. His linen sheets. In some unused room of the Stark Tower. The events of last night drifted back slowly, bit by bit. He got into another fight with Steve, this time about groceries. He stormed off, slamming the door behind him. Tony slumped at the dining table, mindlessly gnawing on beef jerky. The other Avengers watched him with badly disguised concern. Tony Stark was never silent. Tony Stark was never the one to back off from a fight. And yet he did. Because Steve knew exactly where to drive it home. Right behind his neglected-child gland, a little to the right of his drinking problem, nicking his Afghanistan incident in the process. Not to mention cleanly passing through his ego. Ouch. Let's just say that beef jerky doesn't keep the demons at bay for long.

Clint detected Tony's awakening and roused himself. He yawned and poked Steve in the process who instantly jerked awake.

"Good morning sunshine," Steve flatly remarked. How did that much sarcasm get into his system?

"Close the blinds." Tony's voice was hoarse and unsteady. "What, no snappy remark?" Tony stayed silent, playing keepaway with Steve's eyes. It was hard to just "talk" to Steve. He was amazingly intuitive, but amazingly stubborn with that thick head and those deeply ingrained morals that Tony had grown to resent and envy.

"Your blood alcohol content was six times the driving limit." Steve rubbed his temples. Clint popped a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed quietly. Tony gestured for some. Clint threw it over. Tony dropped it, tried to pick it up, and gave up. His other arm was in a cast.

"Did I break it?" Clint shook his head.

"Sprained your wrist. The cast is just an accessory."

"They'll be in season next year, I swear."

"Better get mine before the masses rush in." Clint scoffed and shook his head. The edges of Tony's lips crawled upwards slightly. Steve still had his head in his hand, staring at the floor with his his elbows on his knees. The perfect image of mourning...but for whom? His missed date from 70 years ago? Man, that guy needs to move on. Oh wait, that thought dripped with hypocrisy, didn't it?

"Hey, go check on Natasha for me." Clint looked confused. "She's not on a mission. She's fine."

"Then go check on Bruce, or Thor, or, I don't know, that pigeon that took a dump on you last week."

Clint looked less confused and left.

Steve didn't look up when he spoke. "Your liver almost gave out. Oh, and your kidneys were basically shot, too. The only reason you aren't experiencing the world's greater hangover now is because I begged them to flush it out of your system. Dialysis, I think." Steve stood up suddenly, the chair sliding back and hitting the wall. "Do you know how much you scared me, how much you scared all of us? When you just passed out like that, and all we could do is watch doctors flush every bit of booze out of your blood? Do you think we enjoy being able to kick every enemy's ass except that little sneaky one in a bottle you keep in your room? Do you think we enjoy that?" Steve didn't shout. He whispered. Tony just stared. When Steve saw that he wasn't responding anytime soon, he kneeled at the billionaire's bedside, desperation in his eyes. "We can't lose you again, Tony. Don't give out on us. What happened? What could have possibly happened? Dammit, Tony, say something!" Tony said nothing, just stared into Steve's bright, icy blue eyes. They wouldn't it, Steve most of all. He would just listen and go back into his protective world of training and punching bags. Tony had nothing. Nothing constructive, nothing good. He wasn't Steve. He shut his eyes and slumped down.

Steve sighed. Tony heard the door open, then close gently. His breathing slowed as he neared the threshold of sleep. He never noticed the door open yet again, and he never felt the soft lips that brushed his.


	2. Howard

**A/N: Sorry the update took so long, school caught up to me. Um, there's some AU stuff in here, so please correct me if there's anything fishy! Thanks for the awesome reviews, too. Especially you, "ruru". **

**A/N: To whomever posted the anon comment on 6/4/2012, I appreciate the feedback, but I just wanted to point out that I was aiming for that flat, bored tone, because doesn't it represent their current relationship, which is icy and awkward, even though they obviously want to be more than friends? Hence the strange grammar/phrasing as well.  
**

* * *

Everyone showed up to breakfast the next morning, which was strange, as Clint and Natasha were usually gone by dawn. Tony and Bruce both shuffled into the kitchen at the same time. Tony was dressed rather casually, in a short-sleeved shirt that combined profanity and his ego. Clint and Thor (when did he learn how to cook) made food for everyone; surprisingly, it didn't taste too bad. Clint and Natasha were playing with their phones, and Thor was busy shoveling a huge pile of bacon into his face. No one uttered a word of greeting, but everyone stared at Tony. He had been on the IV all night long, replenishing some of the fluids lost in the binging two nights previous. Natasha shoved two plates of food to Bruce and Tony. Bruce alternated between eating and fiddling with his phone. Tony chased a blueberry around until it fell off the edge of his plate. He chased another. Then another.

The silence was deafening. No one spoke. No one made eye contact with Tony, but exchanged glances amongst each other ranging from puzzled to furious to defeated. But no one spoke. Tony checked his watch, jammed a slice of bacon into his teeth, mumbled a "thank you", and left. He could feel their eyes dissecting him as he descended the stairs.

"Are you unwell, sir," JARVIS asked with a touch of concern in his inhuman, uncomforting voice. Tony gave no reply, just cleared his desk of all papers and floating holograms and idly sketched. He heard someone's footsteps; heavy guy, but too soft to be casual; must be Steve.

"Sir, if you are still—"

"Strip everyone of their permission to enter the lab."

"…Sir?"

"You heard what I said, JARVIS, so don't fuck around with me."

"Very well sir." The amount of disapproval in his voice was tangible.

Steve reached the door. Tony's back was to him, and he rapped the door.

"Tony, we need to talk!" Tony didn't turn. He knocked again, and tried the keypad. _0704._ "Tony, let me in!" The screen flashed red. Steve frowned, and tapped the glowing buttons again. _0704_. Nothing. Tony didn't turn. Steve took a deep breath and bit his lip in frustration. He pounded on the glass with more force. He didn't want to break it, but he kept pounding. Tony didn't turn. He pounded harder. Tony scratched his ear and mouthed something. The door faded to an opaque grey. "Dammit, Tony, open the door!" For some strange reason, Stark being in a room by himself with no company except power tools and a computer frightened him. Steve desperately kicked the glass, but it wouldn't give. He kicked it twice more before it shattered.

"It's alright, I hated that door anyway." Tony hadn't changed position, but Steve now noticed that he was holding a tumbler of amber fluid in one hand, and his eyes had clouded over. Steve assessed the situation, justified what he was about to do, strode over to Tony in four quick steps, grabbed the glass from Tony slack grip and hurled it against the wall. Tony whined once, and then just stared blankly into Roger's blue eyes.

Hazel on blue. Blue on hazel. He smiled to himself while the Captain ranted about something. Look at that mouth go. It's a wonder that he's America's golden boy, not some saucy housewife. Blah, blah, blah.

"Listen, Cap, I hate to break your tirade," Tony slurred out, "But I have a meeting and I need to go, so if you would just move your righteous ass up out of my way and no one has to get hurt."

"Oh, you seemed to have forgotten that lovely conversation we had just before demonic Clint had a little fun with us in the middle of the Atlantic. Remember that offer I made? Yeah, it's still up." Tony scoffed. "Try me."

Steve's eyes had narrowed to slits, burning brighter than ever. Stark's eyes were a bit off focus, but still had the hard light from when they first met. Tony broke the connection, frowning and trying to shove past Steve. He let him pass. Stark's footsteps were uneven and cautious, most likely from the alcohol. Halfway between Steve and the stairs, Tony stopped. He turned and walked back to the Captain, albeit with a wobble in his step and an off-kilter look about him.

"Who's Margaret?" Steve sneered.

"Who?"

"That cute British lady."

"Oh, that was her name?"

"You never found out her name? You're almost as bad as I am."

"Why do you care about her?"

"Because you obviously can't get over her, and it's bumming me out. Sit." Tony gestured to the desk chair. Steve sat stiffly, wondering if Tony was going to blindside him with something big. Like an engagement ring.

Tony shuffled around the workshop, muttering to himself while going through all the chests and cabinets before finding an old mug and a coffee flask, which he filled with tap water. He handed the flask to Steve. His arm was trembling slightly, but not enough to be concerned about.

"Shoot."

"Sorry?"

"Talk."  
"Um, where do you want me to start?"

"I don't know." He tried to pour himself a mug of scotch, but Steve just gripped his arm and glared at him until he set it back down. Tony stared down into the empty mug and frowned. The air grew heavy with an oppressive silence as Steve gathered the courage to tell this his deepest secrets.

"I guess we met in 19—what year was it? Anyway, November of 19-something, and I had just enlisted for Project Rebirth, but I knew I had no chance. I was scrawny, weak, and had little to boast about except for my sketches. Agent Cart—wait a minute, what are you doing?"

Tony continued to frown at his cup. Something about it seemed off, but he shook off the feeling and looked at the Captain.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"You—you…you're recovering from an alcohol overdose, and you're drinking alcohol!"

"Oh my God! Call the police!"

"Are you out of your mind? You're still recovering!"

"Yeah, I think I got that part, Captain Genius. And why do you care? It's not like I'm the most pitiable creature out there. I have a drinking problem. Shit happens."

Tony still refused to look up into Steve's eyes. Steve could see the hidden pain, the rugged scars from a lifetime of—what? What happened?

"Tony, we do care."

"Like hell you do. You look at me and you see my dad. And who's this 'we'? There is no 'we'. Okay, New York was fun and all, but you can't mooch off my money, my company, my house, my food, forever. You're only here because you're so miserably out of touch with society that you can't even operate a toaster without nuclear scientists egging you on."

Okay, that one stung.

"Tony, Howard—" Tony cut him off again.

"Howard this, Howard that, Howard would've this, Howard could that, why do I have to be like him? I hated him, and he hated me back! Why do you care about anything?" He was shouting now. Steve saw how deep the wounds ran, and how Tony hadn't even bothered to dress them, just let them fester. Let them be. Let them rot. His eyes were darting back and forth in pain, like a frenzied animal, cornered by unseen monsters and vicious memories.

"I don't know."

"No. You don't. No one knows. No one knows how Howard would come home at one in the morning, when mother had gone to bed. When everyone was asleep, and I'd be sitting by the door, writing and drawing and building and trying everything to make him proud. And he'd just saunter right on in, sneer at whatever I was doing, and saunter right on off again. Congratulations, you finished school three years early, top of the class. Let me ignore you for three months. Oh, Tony, I have a special surprise for you! A sneer and a vicious comment for your 14th birthday, isn't that just swell? Have some money; I'm too busy and self-absorbed to spend time with you. Fast forward two years. I'm at MIT. Guess who never bothered to send me off to college, who never bothered to send a single damn check when I was working my ass off trying to pay off student loans, who never bothered to write a single letter, who never gave a single, piss-poor little thought about Tony, his 'beloved' son? Great, I'm just going to board an airplane with the only person that ever cared about you, and let's just watch this flight go to hell and leave poor little Tony alone with too much money now." Tony sank back down into his chair, elbows on his knees, hands running through his hair. Steve could here low, choked sobs. "Fast forward another ten years. You have Tony Stark, world's most irresponsible playboy and billionaire, who invites at least two women into his bed every day. Now let's watch him disappear on a trip to Afghanistan and every fucking day for 51 days, shrapnel moving closer and closer to his heart. Let's watch the world's kindest person sacrifice his brilliant mind to keeping you alive. Let's watch your uncle stab you in the back. Let's watch Captain America bitch about him. And his tower, let's not forget that, huh? So Steve, you think you know? Well, now you do. And this is the abridged, clean version. There, rant over, now continue your life without a pathetic guy like me fucking it up."

Steve had never had to deal with this before. One of the world's bravest men, reduced to tears by his childhood hero. He was wrong to push him. He was wrong to assume. Steve stood up and gently pulled Tony to his feet and hugged him. Tony didn't struggle, he just sank into Steve's arms and heaved great shuddering sobs. It seemed like hours before he finally stopped and pulled away from Steve. Blue on hazel. Hazel on blue.

"I want lunch."

"Any place in particular?"

"JARVIS recommended 'sushi'. I want some."

"I'll take you out. Ah, screw it, let's all go out. We haven't had a meal together in a long time."

Tony patted Steve's shoulder on the way out, hand lingering a fractional amount longer than it should have.


	3. StarkPhones and Noodles

**A/N: This was really pointless but really fun.**

**A/N: I really should be preparing for my persuasive Civil Rights speech. *sighs* Oh well, this was worth it. Another shout-out to KCN Chen. And to Granny. If she can see this.**

Tony patiently tried to explain to Steve how to hold chopsticks. It was hard, trying to get a man with almost unlimited strength to grip two delicate wooden sticks between his fingers.

"No, Cap, don't squeeze so—ow, OW, OW, THAT'S MY FINGER DAMMIT, okay, just gently hold it—Steve, it's just like a pen. Just like a pen. You're sketching." Steve's forehead glistened with sweat as he tried he tensed up when Tony slipped yet another pair into his large hands. A growing pile of splinters sat in between them. Clint and Natasha were doodling on napkins, while Bruce took notes on Thor's account of the now defunct Bifrost. Steve's hand trembled for a moment, but the chopsticks didn't snap, or fly out of his hand, or do much of anything. Just sat there and looked dangerous. Both breathed sighs of relief, and Steve gingerly manipulated the chopsticks.

"Hey, this is pretty easy. Thanks, Tony."

"Yeah. I'm hungry," he whined. Tony liked to whine. He whined constantly. Whine, whine, whine. Whine.

It was a noodle shop, nestled in the heart of Manhattan's Chinatown. Tony had planned for sushi, but couldn't find anything that wasn't tainted by trendy graphics and avant-garde wallpaper designs; it reminded him too much of Pepper. The entire troupe managed to squeeze into a booth; Natasha and Clint sat in the inner-most seats, with Bruce and Thor right next to them, followed by Steve and Tony, respectively. Tony swept the broken chopsticks into his hand and tossed them into a wastebasket located close nearby, and began playing with his phone. He loved that phone. Well, he had designed it, of course, but still, it was a pretty amazing phone. He checked the stocks, news, and voicemail, and slipped it back into his pocket. It was nice today; not freezing, but not warm either. Crisp September weather. Everyone was dressed lightly, but Steve insisted that everyone bring a jacket as well. Steve wore a faded green cardigan over a t-shirt, and big, black glasses. Tony stared. Steve had perfect vision. Why did he need glasses? Hazel on black. Black on blue.

Steve scanned the shop, taking in his surroundings. Back in his day, most people in his neighborhood were white. One of his textbooks talked about the lifting of the Chinese Exclusion Act, but he still looked at the bustling international district with wonder. So much diversity, so much tolerance. Well, that was until he heard the racial slurs.

"Why are you wearing glasses?"

"What?" Tony's remark dragged him back to reality. "Oh, she said that I would look good in them." Steve tilted his head towards Natasha. Tony studied his glasses, and raised his eyebrows.

"Good pick, Tash."

"I try." She sipped her coffee. That woman thrives off coffee, much the way the Starks did. Steve remembered that Howard had to have it, regardless of the time of day.

A waitress maneuvered between the closely spaced tables to come take their order. It was busy today, and they had had to wait for at least ten minutes, it seemed. Her eyes were defeated, grown used to the daily grind. It must be horribly abrasive, standing around all day, listening to others give her orders, and then leave without a single word of thanks. She brushed back a stray strand of hair while jotting down what they wanted. Tony ordered for Thor. He didn't trust him talking in public yet. The waitress looked up, saw Steve staring at her, and smiled thinly, before turning around to drop off their order. Tony was playing with his phone again, Thor was arm-wrestling Clint and seemed to be losing, while Natasha and Bruce made small talk with each other, a little iciness still between them from the Helicarrier drama. Steve observed the scene again. A small man, reading the newspaper and loudly slurping up noodles in the booth in front of Steve. A young couple, chatting casually, food ignored, with their faces growing closer and closer with each sentence. Steve looked away for decency's sake when they kissed. A booth behind them, two men were conversing quietly on deep topics, and Steve listened to them for a while before getting bored. There were others, but he didn't want to infringe on any privacy, though he could hear them perfectly from where he was. Tony was still playing with his phone, absentmindedly rubbing the stubble on his chin. He lost his distinctive goatee a few weeks ago, when the drinking stuff started happening. Steve missed it.

"I miss your goatee."

"Sorry?"

"Your goatee." Steve pointed to Tony's chin. "It disappeared after you went AWOL."

"Mm, I'm thinking of changing styles. It's a little old."

"No, don't."

"Why?"

Steve floundered for words.

"I don't—know, just—okay, it just looks—I don't know, it just makes you, well, you." Tony scoffed and shook his head, a gentle smirk on his mouth. Not harsh, gentle.

"Fine, for your sake, Capsicle. Maybe I'll shave you, too, and we pretend we're related." Steve looked at Tony in surprise. "What?"

"You shaved your own goatee?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, it just seemed that you weren't the kind of person to—"

"What, do anything? Steve, I'm rich, not useless. There's a distinction, but more and more people seem to equate the two." Tony rolled his eyes and went back to his phone, shutting Steve out again. Steve heard a loud thud and loud protests, and most everyone in the restaurant turned to look at their table. Thor was upset that he lost. Steve glared at him until he shut up and Clint smiled gloatingly. Steve stared at him two until he wiped that superior smile off his face. Bruce tapped him docilely on the shoulder.

"Cap, bathroom."

"Oh, yeah, sure." He shuffled out awkwardly, bumping into the side table to let Banner pass by. He was dressed…_normally_ today, much unlike the mismatched garb he usually donned. Jeans, a sweater, a beanie on his head and frameless glasses. Steve filed the outfit away for future use. The tired waitress came back, holding a huge tray loaded with bowls of steaming soup. Everyone inhaled the aromatic and mouth-watering scent, and watched eagerly as she softly passed out the orders, remembering who's who. Steve made eye contact with her again as she handed him his soup, and she smiled shyly again. Not a bad looking…not dame, chick, as Tony calls them.

"Cute ass." Steve looked in surprise at the person who said that.

"What?"

"Well, she has a nice ass. But I think mine's a little better." Natasha shrugged at Steve's bewildered look. "She has a nice butt, I'll admit it. What? I'm not bisexual or anything. You see it, you call it, that's how it works these days."

"Maybe in commie country, but not here."

"Then what about Tony?"

"What about me?"

"You were commenting on Steve's ass two weeks ago?"

"Oh yeah, his ass. Nice butt there, Cap." Tony went back to his phone. Steve sank a little lower in his seat and felt the red creeping into his face. And his ass.

Bruce walked back and Steve got up, being careful to keep his front faced towards Tony, decided that that would be awkward, so he turned his side, labeled that as even more awkward, and sat back down. Bruce and Thor exchanged glances while everyone else chuckled.

"Steve, just get up, don't be self-conscious," Clint chirped. Steve felt himself blushing again, and stood up to let Banner through. He sat back down when Bruce had slid into his seat. Clint looked thoughtfully at Steve. "You were right, his ass is pretty nice."

"Shut up or I'll hit you."

"Whoa there, Cap, no need to get defensive," Clint quickly backtracked. He was amazingly skilled at hand to hand combat, but no match for Steve's superior reflexes or strength. Tony looked up, set down the phone and slid it across the table.

"Here, for you. It's my apology for acting all icky for the past two weeks."

"Hey, we had to put up with you, too, I want one!" Tony handed a thin slice of glass to Clint.

"He gets one, I get one." Natasha gestured for Tony to hand him one. Tony reached into his bag and pulled out two more, one for Natasha, and another for Banner. Banner refused politely, and Tony offered it to Thor instead, who accepted it graciously and jabbed at it hard, trying to imitate what he had seen Tony do countless times. And failing. Tony probably planned to give them all phones sometime soon, anyway; might as well be now.

"Newest model of StarkPhone. Redesigned completely. Enjoy."

Err, Steve surreptitiously glanced at the spies, who were nodding appreciatively at the phone's many capabilities. Thor brought the glass up to the light and squinted, trying to make sense out of it. Bruce sighed and began to teach him how to use it.

Tony just stared at Steve. Steve stared helplessly at Tony and shrugged, setting the phone back on the table. Tony shoved it back towards him. "Just tap it. It's pretty intuitive from that point on."

Steve tapped it. A small glowing box appeared with text scrolling across it. _Welcome, Captain Steve Rogers. This is your personalized StarkPhone, complete with access to the JARVIS mainframe. You have a nice ass._

Steve glared at Tony. He better have medical insurance.


	4. Titanic Moments

**A/N: Really sorry I haven't been able to update; I hate drama in life. ARGH. THIS IS REALLY REALLY BAD (strange continuity issues EVERYWHERE) SO PLEASE DON'T HURT ME ;n; REVIEW PLEASE THANKS.**

* * *

Tony and Steve clutched each other, both sobbing uncontrollably and shoving handfuls of popcorn into their mouths. It was movie night, but all the rest of the Avengers were gone. So watching Titanic was acceptable.

"NO, STUPID BITCH, THERE'S ROOM FOR THE BOTH OF YOU," Tony screamed, tears streaming out of his eyes.

"That's how you sh-should treat a da-da-dame," Steve barely managed to stutter out, sweater soaked like he just came back from the gym.

"NO IT DOESN'T YOU SHOVE THAT FUCKER OVER AND GET ON WITH HER!"

"Lay off her, Tony!"

"YOU STUPID BITCH, ROSE!"

Tony broke down when Jack slipped under the waves, wailing like a banshee. Steve clapped a hand over his mouth, afraid that the neighbors would hear the cacophony, but then remembered that they _had_ no neighbors, and proceeded to screech himself.

"Oh God, why are we doing this?"

"You said this would be a good idea!"

"Well I've been wrong before! Why do you even listen to me?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE CAPTAIN FUCKING AMERICA!"

The credits were scrolling across the screen slowly, the sorrowful lament of Celine Dion filling the room via Tony's hyper-expensive sound system. This was such a bad idea. _Such _a bad idea.

"I need something to drink. You want anything?"

Steve nodded while hugging his knees to his chest, shoulders heaving with empty sobs.

Tony poured two large shots of bourbon, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. He handed Steve a cup and sat down next to him, flipping through channels before settling on something loud and action-y. Steve yawned and dried up the last remnants of his movie experience, a growing pile of tissues collecting by his side.

"I'm tired."

"I am, too."

"I don't want to sleep."

"Nor do I."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know, um…I can show you my gun collection."

"You have a gun collection?"

"I have a collection of anything you could possibly name."

"Bottlecaps?"

A pause.

"Dammit, I knew I was missing something. JARVIS, ADD 'DRINK SODA' TO MY TO-DO LIST!"

"Done, sir."

They sat in awkward silence, with loud explosions bursting around them.

"You still want to see that gun collection?"

"No, not really."

"Yeah, me neither."

More awkward silence.

"What time is it?"

"JARVIS, WHAT TIME IS IT?"

"Past your bedtime, sir."

"SHUT UP."

"A little past ten, sir."

"We can squeeze in another movie."

"Nothing emotional?"

"Well…it is, but kind of in the other direction. Are you queasy?"

Steve looked confused.

"Sorry?"

"Do you hate blood?"

"No."

"Have you been tortured?"

"No."

"Okay, let's watch this."

It was a movie called Saw. It turns out Steve was queasy. He almost got sick a couple of times, but refused to give Tony the satisfaction. The third time he felt the urge to vomit his popcorn, Steve lurched forwards, fighting his gag reflex, and glanced surreptitiously to make sure that Tony didn't see him.

He didn't. He was staring intently at the huge screen, gore and viscera reflected in his dark brown eyes. Bright eyes. Glazed eyes. Dead eyes.

"You okay?" No response. "Are you tired?" Tony cleared his throat and continued to stare at the screen. More screams. Silence. Steve stood up, stretched, and looked around for a closet. He couldn't find any.

"JARVIS, where does he keep his blankets?"

"There's a linen closet down the hall and past the sauna."

Steve retrieved two thin quilts and tossed them both over Tony. He hadn't changed position, although the movie had ended and credits were again scrolling silently across the screen. Steve sat down next to Tony, the stillness punctuated only by the quiet sounds of Steve munching on popcorn. Steve cleared his throat.

"Agent Carter talked to me until… until I went under. She promised me a date."

Tony grabbed a handful of popcorn, his first movement since the beginning of the movement. JARVIS flipped the channel to some rerun of a baseball game.

"I…I reneged on that promise."

"Through no fault of your own."

"It doesn't matter!"

Tony glanced at Steve's distressed face, and crunched on his popcorn.

"It does matter. You gave up 70 years of your life for millions of others. By now, you should be dead, or at least old enough to remember World War II. But you're not dead, or old, but you still remember World War II. Why? Because you got _lucky_."

"What do you mean 'you got lucky'? Going under was—"

"The best damn thing that could ever happen to you. You don't suffer the pain of seeing everyone you love die—"

"Everyone I loved _did_ die!"

"Well, you didn't have to live through it, did you? Does anyone blame you for fucking anything up? You should've _died_, Steve. But you didn't. You saved countless lives, and tried to give up your own. But it wasn't taken, because you're a super-soldier, because you're too damn strong for death to claim. Oh no, Steve, you cheated death. You bastard, you cheated death. And I would give everything I owned for just one more chance at that."

Steve sat silently, pondering Tony's words. _Just one more chance at that…_

"One more chance?"

Tony sighed, a fleeting look of panic crossing over the man's face.

"I was taken by a terrorist organization based in Afghanistan called Ten Rings, um, for promoting weapons. Back when I still headed Stark Industries. We created weapons. The best and most brutal you've ever seen. Bombs with shrapnel built right into the case, designed for maximum casualties. Bullets that would release acid after it sank into your flesh. Agent Orange-esque stuff designed to cause the gruesome genetic mutations."

"Agent Orange?"

"Some herbicidal stuff used in Vietnam. Stuff caused your limbs to turn orange and some other pretty messed up deformations."

Steve nodded, still not quite comprehending but trying to keep up.

"So? Why did they come after you?"

"I was touring the Middle East, promoting my Jericho missile. Huge, beautiful missile. I loved it. Designed it myself. Well, JARVIS helped. Thanks JARVIS, that thing was lovely."

"Apology accepted, sir."

"JARVIS, behave. Anyway, they wanted me to build a missile. A big one. Even bigger than the Jericho."

"What did you do?"

"What do you think I did?"

"Build the missile—"

"Wow, I'm flattered. You and JARVIS both."

"—With a safety that would detonate before the timer went off. 'I'd just cut the wire', Tony. Cut the wire."

Tony smiled wistfully.

"Didn't work that way. A bit hard to explain right now, but let's just say that they had to resort to…other methods to coerce me to build the missile. And I gave in. Oh, and did I mention that I had a few rather dangerous pieces of shrapnel headed towards my heart? Thus the arc reactor. My baby. Well, actually Dr. Yinsen's baby, and then adopted posthumously by Howard, but my baby nonetheless. This thing keeps me alive. It's like a really strong magnet."

"And you escaped by building your Mark I Iron Man suit."

"That's not in my file."

"No, JARVIS told me."

"That's it, JARVIS, you're grounded. Go think about what you've done in the back-up server."

"What did they do to you?"

Tony didn't speak for the longest time, fighting the tidal wave of panic he had been damming for eight years. He fought against the memory, against the pain that came with it, against the panic and the loss of control. But Cap was here. Cap could stop him if he lost control. Couldn't he?

"Have you heard of water-boarding?"

"Yes."

"Let's just say that a very… primitive sort of it was used on me."

"What sort exactly?"

Tony took a deep breath, trying to block out the shrieks, the curses, the water coursing down his airways, the blinding lights, and sudden darkness, the inability to cry for help, though he was surrounded by enemies… Tony snapped back to real life, choking back a scream.

"I was drowned. Repeatedly. Held underwater for minutes at a time till I completely passed out, then revived. Ad infinitum."

Steve stared straight ahead.

"That didn't work. I didn't really have a stomach for water. So they moved onto something a little less… subtle."

"You don't have to tell me."

"The arc reactor back then was a car-battery, did you know? Just a simple car battery, keeping me alive, invented by Ho Yinsen, a Nobel prize winter who happened to be locked in the same cell as I was. Stolen for the same reason. Power. Ten Rings left the battery alone; they wanted me alive. Just broken and scarred, that's all that they wanted. They wanted a piece of me, not the whole. No one wants me whole. They just want a piece."

The sorrow in Tony's voice was tangible.

"So I was strapped to a table, ropes tied around my hands and feet, and stretched. Just stretched. Stretched until both my shoulders popped out and I was screaming that I would build the damn thing, just let me out. I didn't care about America, I didn't care about some abstract ideal, about my home country. I didn't care about anything but myself. So I built the missile. 'No safeguards', they said, or Yinsen would die. I didn't care. So they took Yinsen. By accident. But they still took him. Because I built a safeguard. I built Iron Man. I need something to drink. Do you want anything?"

Steve shook his head. This man had too many facets. Too many places where the cutter was too careless. Too many places where too many people rubbed off on him. Tony was too complicated. And Steve was too simple. Tony was right. Why was he still wallowing in an accident that he couldn't have prevented? Chance?

Tony returned with another cup of alcohol, whiskey this time. Steve grabbed his forearm before the glass could touch his lip.

"No more. You've had enough."

"I've only had…half a bottle."

"That's a lot."

"Then you've obviously never me drunk."

"Tony—"

"Steve—"

"I think I—"

"Nope—"

"What?"

"Mhm."

"What are you—"

"I don't want—"

Steve lurched forward, unable to hold back any longer. He slammed into Tony's, the taste of alcohol lingering on his lips. Tony's eyes widened in confusion, and he dropped the glass, hearing the tingling shatter as hundreds of dollars worth of crystal shattered against the mahogany floors.

Steve was gentle. He didn't force his way in. He just hovered on the edge, unsure of whether or not to go all the way through. This was unlike the multitude of girls (and sometimes guys) he had kissed. There was no forced passion. No lust. No double meanings. No manipulation Nothing that Steve hadn't lain out in the open for Tony to pick and choose. Nothing to hide, nothing to regret. And Tony savored it. He snaked his arms around Steve's massive frame, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into Steve's embrace.


	5. Moldy Muffins

**A/N: I'm totally not writing this while I'm supposed to be finishing a physics project..**

**A/N: "ruru" gets a shout-out. Jerk.**

Steve blinked a few times and inhaled deeply. He picked up the faint smells of…Tony's aftershave? Steve's eyes snapped open and he madly scrabbled onto the floor, rolling onto many, many small, sharp pieces of glass that dug into his skin.

"What—what do you think you're doing?"

"Huh," Tony groaned, squinting against the bright rays of sunrise.

"Why did you do this?"

"Do what?"

"You—you demonic…you…"

"Cap, what is it? What did I do?" Tony sat up, rubbing his forehead and the little dribble of drool off the side of his mouth. He hadn't drooled before.

"I—I, I SLEPT WITH YOU!"

Tony laughed. Man, this guy was so… sweet. And innocent. And untouched. Steve was burning redder than a tomato. Tony laughed again.

"Go change first. We'll talk later."

"No, I want to talk now! Why did you sleep with me?"

"Hey, you're the one that kissed me!"

"I, I—I didn't think, okay, "Steve floundered. Tony grinned and tried to ruffle Steve's hair, but the larger man seized his hand, glowering dangerously. "Don't test me, Stark."

"Then don't ask for it, Rogers." Steve sighed, trying to tell Tony that they couldn't… be… an item, but not wanting to hurt him. Damaged as he was.

"It's just that… we aren't allowed to…"

"Steve, Steve, Steve, you're so naïve. Hey, that rhymed! Look around you. I live in a huge-ass tower with a brain that has no body serving my every whim."

Steve raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

"Sir?" JARVIS chirped, completely ignored by both Steve and Tony.

"Your point being?"

"Our world has changed in 70 years. You think anyone's going to care if two guys fuck?"

"Yes!"

"No, they don't! Well, some do…"

"I'M CAPTAIN AMERICA! I'M AMERICA'S GOLDEN BOY! I CAN'T DATE A GUY!"

"Master Stark," JARVIS interrupted, a bit louder this time.

"I'M FUCKING TONY STARK! I JUST MADE MORE MONEY YELLING AT YOU THAN FIFTY PERCENT OF NEW YORK COMBINED!"

"WELL I DON'T CARE, I CAN'T DATE YOU!"

"YOU KISSED ME FIRST!"

"WELL, YOU KISSED ME BACK!"

"MASTER STARK," JARVIS thundered, the lights flickering and the sound system spitting out feedback. Steve and Tony shut up. JARVIS cleared his throat. Or at least pretended to. "I believe Agent Barton has returned from his latest SHIELD assignment."

The lift dinged.

"I'm back," Clint shouted. They both looked to the elevator, surprise on their faces, mere inches from each other. Hawkeye stepped out, threw his coat onto the couch, and glanced up, rolling his eyes. "Never should've left you two alone," he mumbled, slouching back to the elevator and punching the button for the topmost floor, sticking his tongue out at both of them as the doors slid shut.

Tony and Steve shuffled back a few steps from each other and stood awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed following their shouting match.

"So… that was… interesting," Steve mumbled. Tony's eye twitched and he ran out of the room. A few seconds later, Steve heard a huge trumpeting sneeze, and Tony returned, wiping his nose with a tissue.

"Sorry," he snuffled. "Caught a cold yesterday. Oh God, I didn't get you sick, did I?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay, um… do you want breakfast? We have…" Tony went into the kitchen. "Donuts, coffee… more donuts, um… bagels? I think they're bagels… Wait, they're moldy muffins, yuck… JARVIS, ask Clint if he wants breakfast! Oh, we have Golden Grahams. But they're mine." Tony stuck his head around the corner. "Come one, let's eat."

Steve shuffled across the room, the domesticity of the moment unnerving him. He vaguely remembered his parents having an argument when he was young; it would mean days of no speaking and sharp tongues and broken things—wait, wait, was he seriously comparing Tony and his… _friendship_ to a marriage? What? That was just wrong!

"No, Tony, I'm fine," Steve shouted. Something shattered in the kitchen. "Sorry, dropped a plate! What did you say?"

"Tony, I don't want your food, I don't want to stay here anymore, I'm going back to Brooklyn."

Tony's head popped around the corner again.

"You want to go back to your apartment?" Steve couldn't really see from such a distance, but he sensed a touch of hurt in Tony's voice. He sighed, rubbing his temple and sitting down on the sofa.

"I just… I just can't be around you with all these… thoughts coming into my head, Tony."

He heard silence, then the sound of several clay shards being tossed into the sink, and Tony's footsteps across the wooden floor. The soft creak of leather as Tony sat down next to Steve. His voice was gentle when he spoke.

"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to."

"But you want me to."

"Of course. Look, we got off to a bad start… I mean, a really bad start, but—can I tell you something? You're one of my only friends." Steve cringed.

"You must not have many friends."

"I don't." Now Steve looked at Tony, surprise, then pity on his face, and Tony buried his face in his hands. "Everyone is at arm's length to me, Steve. I can go through my contact list every day and check off at least three people, because they died or they're dying. I can't afford to get too close. Because I surround myself with people that I _know _will die sooner rather than later."

"But you have Rhodes. You have Pepper. The Avengers. Hell, even Hill and Fury. We care about you, even if you can't… care about us."

Tony smiled ruefully, a ghost of a laugh playing over his dark features.

"You know how I met Rhodey? I ran into him while clawing my way out of a jungle. Afghanistan wasn't the first time I had been kidnapped, Rogers. The longest, the most brutal, but not the first, no, far from it. Oh God, I'm getting too personal again. Let's just say that Rhodey could be dead right now and I won't even know it. He's too replaceable. And Pepper… she's too close to me. It makes her an easy target. So I have to distance myself. And I don't even need to tell you why I can't get too attached to the Avengers, or to you, Steve. You live on a day-to-day basis. Sure, you're a super-soldier, and it's so fucking hard to kill you, but you're still too easy to kill. We're humans, Steve. Extraordinary humans, but humans. I have a suit. Clint has arrows. Nat has guns. Bruce has… a very protective friend. You have… whatever came out of that bottle. And Thor… has a murderous little brother who came within a hair of finishing of a _demigod_. So don't waste your time 'caring' about me, Steve. Cause I sure as hell can't give a damn about you.

Steve chewed on his lip, mulling over Tony's paradigm. He nodded slowly, running through every possible scenario in his head, picking his best plan of action, trying to imagine the consequences. And he found it. He turned to Tony.

"Back in our day, we can't like boys."

"No sh—"

"No, just listen. We couldn't like boys, Tony. We could be as close as we wanted. We could spend so much time together we could count each other's freckles from memory alone. But we couldn't like boys. It was wrong. It was sinful. It was _evil_."

Steve took a shuddering breath. A disfigured blob of gore couldn't faze him, but his childhood could. Go figure. "Some of us... would. And we had to keep it hidden. Out of sight. No one could ever know, or it was a trip to the electroshock center."

"Wait, you guys had electroshock centers?"

"Well, it was our informal term for mental asylums."

"Mm."

"Peggy and I..." Steve continued talking, but Tony drifted off into the recesses of his own mind. Something Steve said bothered him. Bothered him a lot, actually. He murmured at the right times, trying to keep up the facade of attention. _Some of us_, Steve said. Who's "us"? Someone he knew? Yes. How close? Very, by the looks of it. But who? Who did Steve share his deepest secrets with, and in turn shared them with Steve? Trust went both ways, didn't it? Who—Tony could feel a light-bulb flash above his head, then shatter as the ramifications hit him. Tony wasn't special. From the get-go, he wasn't. Not to Steve, not to the Avengers, not to anybody. He was always second place.

And this time, it wasn't even his fault.

"You had someone else. It wasn't Peggy. Who was it, Steve?"

Steve could sense the barely veiled hurt in Tony's voice, and also the way that he couldn't meet his eyes.

"I think you know who it is, Mr. Stark."

"Oh my God, you were sleeping with Bucky."

Steve shook his head slightly.

"Not quite. But you're not the first Stark that I've had my eyes on."


	6. Lifts

**A/N: The long awaited Chapter 6. "I'm totally satisfied and pleased with calebaren, thanks," said no one ever. ;n; Fluff next chapter, at least.**

"_I'm flattered_."

"Tony…"

"Really. My father was so much greater than I, you're just feeding off his mooncalf, his bane, his rejects, right? The one person who he was forced to deal with!"

Tony shoved Steve's hand off his shoulder again. Which actually shouldn't be possible, considering Steve could grip his shoulder so tightly it would be pulverized, which pissed him off even more. "Dammit, Steve, you don't always have to be so gentle!"

"What?"

"You're always tiptoeing around, like you're going to break something if you don't keep in control, and fuck it, you're not Banner, you're not Thor, you can do whatever the hell you want, I don't fucking care! So why are you always so careful?"

He knew he was rambling off like a senile cat lady, but he didn't care, just needed to get his father—_his own _sneers and 'I told you so' out of his head. And he really hated seeing those downcast, embarrassed blue eyes. "Aw hell, now I've hurt Captain America's feelings. Shit, Steve."

Well, now this was getting awkward. Tony hightailed to the elevator and pressed every button on the side. He needed time to… not think, he already did too much of that, but maybe just cool down.

Steve had been sitting by the window for hours now. A few times, the elevator had dinged and he saw Tony standing there, but he just looked surprised and frantically pressed more buttons, and the doors slid shut again.

"He's avoiding me," he mused to himself. "He's avoiding me, and I'm not even trying to find him, and I know where he is."

JARVIS cleared his virtual throat.

"It's Doctor Banner, sir. I can tell him to come at a more convenient time if you so choose so, Captain Rogers."

"That's fine."

The second elevator clicked, and Bruce entered, holding a small potted plant and a crooked half-smile on his face.

"Hi, sorry to just drop in like this, um, just got back from uh, Alaska."

"Sure, yeah, missed having you around."

Steve smiled thinly and held open the door, gesturing politely for Banner to enter. He cocked an eyebrow at the pile of blankets and the messed up sheet cushions, but Steve just waved him along. "Movie night," he offered. Bruce nodded slowly and sat down at the kitchen counter.

"What've you been up to," Steve called over while pouring cups of coffee. He was about to tip the sugar in, then remembered that a hyper Banner wasn't exactly what he needed right now. Well, his hyper friend, more specifically. Not that coffee would help. He squinted at the brew, but couldn't make out whether or not it was… safe.

"I heard reports of interesting gamma signatures near Anchorage, and you know me. Thanks," he added as Steve stretched out a mug of non-caffeinated coffee. Banner took a sip and cringed. "Wow. That's Tony's stuff, isn't it?"

"Eh, sorry."

"It's fine."

Steve took a swig and almost wretched at the intensity of the brew. He set the cup down gently, afraid that it might collapse into something radioactive if he jostled it too much.

"Did you find anything?"

"No, just a bunch of kids screwing with the computers. Sending off false readings."

"Mm."

Steve tried more of the coffee, and found it slightly more bearable.

"How-how've you been? Where's Tony?" Steve cringed slightly, but enough for Bruce to notice. "Sorry, sorry, awkward, backtracking."

"It's fine. Tony's… difficult, sometimes, to live with."

Bruce laughed.

"And you're just finding this out now? Have we forgotten the Helicarrier? And every time you guys are left unsupervised for more than three minutes? We timed it last time. I think the record is forty-five seconds."

"We just have different personalities."

"So you hate him."

"Yeah, kind of."

He laughed again.

"We all go through that 'Let's-fantasize-about-killing-Tony-in-gruesome-ways' phase, Steve. It's fine; I think he just projects that 'I'm-rich-and-better-than-you' image. Get past that, and he's actually quite likeable."

Yeah, that's something Steve found out by experience. He fingered the rim around the cup, drinking in the almost-sickening aroma of coffee.

"Can I tell you something?"

The edges of Bruce's lips crinkled upwards slightly.

"Don't worry, Cap, I found that out a long time ago."

Steve's eyes widened, then narrowed slightly, incredulous.

"Are you sure we're talking about the same thing here?"

"If we're talking about your closeted bisexuality, then yes, we're talking about the same thing here. There's something nowadays called the Kinsey scale. We measure how straight—or how gay—we are, and we use that as an indication of our general sexual orientation. All of us—in the Tower, I mean—are somewhat… ambiguous in our preferences, Steve. Nothing to be worried about." Bruce nodded down at the coffee. "Yeah, most of us are like that. Some just hide it a lot better than most."

"Um…"

"I'm a psychologist, Steve. Among other things."

"You're a mind-reader."

"Just science. And to think the Scientologists hate me…"

Steve smiled, not quite understanding the sentiment of Banner's statement, but pleased with it nonetheless.

"Thanks, I'll—I'll talk to Tony about it."

"Yeah, and Steve?"

"Mm?"

"He's fragile. Very, very fragile. You haven't been around long, so you don't exactly know what he's like, but a single shard will rip him open. Watch your words, and he'll watch his."

Banner stood up, clearly dismissing himself. He nodded once to Steve and sauntered off to the lab. "I'll be off, you guys know where to find me."

After more sitting by the window and watching it pour, Tony finally dinged for the last time and stepped back into the room. Steve watched him as he pulled a stylish, over-priced, "minimalist" chair over and flop down next to him.

"I've been riding that elevator for five hours."

"I've noticed. Do you want to talk now?"

"No."

"Okay."

Awkward silence. That seems to be 99% of their relationship. "So when do you want to?"

"Can we try… never?"

"No."

"Dammit."

"Look. That was 70 years ago. Can we just drop it?"

"Why'd you bring it up?"

"I thought it was important."

"It kind of is."

"Not anymore. He's dead, and I'm supposed to be."

"Whatever."

"Tony Stark, look at me."

Tony glared at Steve.

"What," he snapped.

"What?"

"What?"

"What do you want? From me?"

"I don't want anything from you."

"Then why are you avoiding me by riding up and down the lift for five hours?"

"I was—okay, I was mad at you."

"Why?"

"Because you're goddamn Captain America! Everything about you is perfect, dammit, your hair, your arms, and the fact that you can bake an apple pie by concentrating on it, and how you can wrap a Christmas present perfectly, and you hate Nazis, and—and, I don't know, I can't be with you because I'm just the completely apeshit and irresponsible and egotistical and calculating and horrible Tony Stark and I don't deserve you, or Pepper, or—ump!"

Tony tripped over the step into the recessed nook and sprawled onto the floor, much to the amusement of Steve, who was perfectly able to catch him but chose not to. "You let me fall, didn't you."

"No such thing."

"Shut up. Asshole," Tony grumbled as he brushed off his suit.

"Nice to see that you're functioning properly."

"You know, for such a legendary figure, Captain America isn't very nice."

"Hmm. I'll put in a good word with him."

"Asshole," Tony repeated.

"Tony, you don't need to do anything to prove your worth."

"And how did we get from calling you an asshole to you addressing my numerous insecurities? Not that I have any. Well, I do, but I never admit."

"Tony—"

"Nice to see that you love my name so much."

"—I—you know what, talking to you is like talking to a telephone pole."

Steve shook his head and started to walk towards his bedroom. "You want to be difficult about everything, fine. At least I can say I tried."

"Steve, wait—"

"I'm done waiting. I waited for five hours for you to _grow up_. Talk to me when you're going to act like a 33-year old genius, not some stuck-up teenager with a bad case of ego."

Steve glanced briefly at Tony's sullen figure on the couch. He extended a hand as if to grab his shoulder again, but let it drop and went to his room.


	7. Strawberries, Floorboards, and Cocktails

**A/N: COCKTAILS. I don't know if I got it right, so if anyone could correct me (or reaffirm me), please PM me the **_**real**_** recipe! Still looking for a buddy, though, so just shoot me a message if you want to get in touch!**

"So what's going on with Tony?"

Pepper slid into the seat opposite Steve and leaned forward.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You have a blushing impulse."

"I know."

"You're lying. What happened?"

"How did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That something's going on with Tony?"

Pepper smiled.

"He started filling out his paperwork. Which has been piling up for the past six years. He finished it _all_. I had a huge stack of papers on my desk this morning, with a post-it note on top saying, 'Happy birthday.'"

Steve shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

"We argued. As we always do."

"But not this bad."

"It was… different."

"Like?"

Pepper stood up and rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out various boxes of fruit and shoveling ice from the freezer.

"Well… I slept with him."

"Interesting."

She didn't skip a beat, just threw all the fruit into a blender along with the ice and Stevia and flipped the switch.

"YOU AREN'T GOING TO ASK ME WHAT HAPPENED," Steve shouted over the noise.

"WHAT?"

"NEVERMIND!"

"WHAT?"

Pepper shut the blender off, tapped it, then blew the hair out of her face, hand on her hip. "What," she repeated, much quieter.

"I slept with Tony. That doesn't… freak you out, or make you jealous, or anything? And I didn't actually _sleep_ with him, I just… you know, slept with him. On the couch. In front of the TV after watching Titanic."

"Well, at least it wasn't busty women," Pepper mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, Steve," Pepper began, pouring the drinks into two crystal cups. "I broke up with Tony, not the other way around. And if I ever wanted him back, he'd already be wrapped around my finger. No offense. I'm his secretary, he's my boss, and no matter how much money we make, it doesn't matter, that's still the dynamic between us. It didn't work. I'm past that, and I like to think that he is, too."

She handed Steve a cup filled with pinkish, cold liquid. "Drink. It's a smoothie."

Steve sipped it. Strawberry. _Strawberry_.

"Wait, I thought you were allergic to strawberries."

"Is that what he told you? Funny."

"So you aren't?"

"Nope, just did that to spite him. I was mad at him. Back when we were still a thing."

Pepper smiled wistfully. "We had good times, Steve. Most of it when it lasted was bittersweet and a base of desperation. It wouldn't have worked no matter how hard we tried."

She drank more of her smoothie. "Enough about me, I want to know more about _you_. You made Tony fill his forms, dot his I's and cross the T's. You deserve a medal."

Steve laughed. "I fought with him."

"Already? We didn't fight until two days in."

"Wrong foot."

"Mm. What started it?"

"Me and my haunting 40's social stigma."

"Ooh, that's deep. We fought about churros. I hate churros, he loves churros, we fought."

"Well."

"Well," Pepper agreed. "Juicy details, Steve."

Steve sighed.

"We were watching Titanic, Avengers movie night. I've never seen it and Tony more or less forced me to. I said I wouldn't cry but I did. And afterwards he started talking about his arc-reactor, and kept drinking, and drinking, and drinking. I stopped him."

"But?"

"Using my lips."

"And I assume it wasn't a simple 'Bad Tony!' was it?"

"No."

"Oh."

"He kissed me back," Steve mumbled into his smoothie. "Tony Stark kissed me back. And somewhere along that we just fell asleep, on the couch, with a bottle between us and our faces plastered to each other."

"I assume it was awkward the next morning."

"Yeah, I freaked out."

"Why?"

"Just—I've seen what happened when people did that in our time. Well, I haven't seen what happened to them, they just… _disappear_. Never see them around on the street or getting groceries or _anything_. I didn't want that to happen. I just lost it."

"Hmm. You see…?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Silence.

"Where's Tony?"

"Malibu, I think." Pepper checked her watch. "He's landing soon."

"_He's in Malibu_?"

"Yeah… does that surprise you? Steve, if you're going to make this work, you're going to have to know that Tony relishes in the sensation of retreat. He loves to run. So chase him wherever he goes. You _always_ follow. That's where I failed."

"So… do I chase him now?"

"No, rest this one. I made him go check up on the Malibu house. Hurricane just blew through, and we don't want any damage."

"Doesn't he have people for that, though?"

Pepper shrugged.

"He needs a vacation. I forced him. Practically shoved his ass on that plane myself."

Steve tipped the remnants of the smoothie into his throat and stood up.

"Thanks for the help. And uh, the smoothie."

"Yeah, yeah, anytime you need help with Tony or someone to smack him back into line, I'm downstairs, okay?"

"Really appreciate it, Ms. Potts."

"Pepper. Not Virginia, or Ms. Potts, or Potty, or any of that crap or I will break your kneecaps."

She grinned at Steve, dimples and all, took his cup and set it by the sink before striding over the elevator and waving as the doors slid shut.

Steve was reading by the floor-to-ceiling window facing the East River when the elevator doors slid open and the floor filled with the stench of burnt flesh and oranges. Bruce coughed, a cloud of green smoke emptying into the room.

"It's harmless, just prop open a few windows. Two hours, max, I promise," he rasped apologetically, gesturing to the dispersing fumes.

"Bruce, what are you doing?"

"Hi, uh, Steve, um, is Tony here?"

"No, he left earlier."

"Uh, do you know when he's going to get back?"

He blindly groped around, inching towards the kitchen counter.

"No… um, do you need help?"

"No, I'm fine, just… need my glasses. Got 'em, thanks."

He scampered back into the elevator and issued a small wave before the doors closed.

"I'M BACK!"

Tony dropped pushed his suitcase down the hallway until it banged against the wall. He loosened his tie and flopped down facedown on the floor. "Oh, God, my floorboards have never felt softer."

"Nice to see you're alive after two days of relaxation and hardcore pampering."

"Oh shut up, Clint, I was doing damage control in Malibu."

Clint scoffed and changed the channel.

"Is anyone making food," he shouted from the floor.

"I am," Bruce shouted back.

"Why does my condo smell like," Tony sniffed, "burnt flesh and oranges?"

"I ripped the tag off a mattress."

"Oh, that's what happens? Nice. Where's Steve?"

"Bedroom."

"How long's he been in there?"

"Uh… Tash, how long?"

"Half hour, showering."

Tony groaned as he removed himself from the loving embrace of the hardwood floor and shuffled into the hallway, just as Steve opened his door and stepped right into Tony, hair still slightly wet and his shirt hugging his chest exactly in the way that Tony couldn't help appreciating.

"Hey there, big guy."

"Oh, uh, hi, Tony," Steve quietly responded, trying to shimmy his way between Tony and the doorframe.

"Listen," the former began, lowering his voice somewhat. "We need to talk about this whole thing, okay?"

Steve raised an eyebrow and kissed Tony. Just enough tongue to turn it the slightest bit dirty, but not enough to act on it. The perfect kiss, now that Tony thought about it. Not that he could do that particular thing with his brain at the moment. JARVIS probably snapped a picture of Tony's chibi-like 'O' reaction face while the corner of Steve's lip curled upwards slightly in a cheeky smile.

"That saves a whole lot of blabbing, don't you think?"

Tony drooled a little as he floated behind Steve. He has the cutest ass ever.

"DINNER, EVERYONE SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW OR I WILL HURT THE BUILDING," Bruce yelled. Needless to say, most scrambled into their seats before he entered the room, arms filled with bowls. Steve had a nice ass. "Ravioli, salad over there, steamed vegetables, I made us some fried chicken, yay, and the rice cooker's full. Eat."

"Alcohol anywhere," Clint voiced.

Silence.

But _damn_, Steve has a nice ass.

"_Tony_," Steve snapped his fingers.

"What? Uh, oh, yeah, Bordeaux? Chardonnay?"

"Jesus, Tony, it's a group meal, not dinner and a movie." But it very well could be…

"Oh fuck, I forgot to mix cocktails before."

"Mix 'em now," Natasha shrugged.

"_Now_?"

"Yes, Stark, _now_. I need to get drunk, I'm gasping."

"For alcohol?"

"Yes, you spoiled brat, I'm gasping for alcohol. Now go mix those drinks. Nothing fruity or girly or I will throw you off this building and no CSI scenario will ever find the killer."

Tony looked around confusedly before standing up to go mix the cocktails. Correction: Steve had a _beautiful_ ass.

"What's this tail of a manhood that I hear the Widow talking about, and why is he going to mix one of them," Thor asked quietly, much to the hilarity of everyone except Steve, who groaned. To think that he's already been living here for six months, to know what a goddamn cocktail is.

Tony whistled as he poured vodka, lemon, and orange juice into a mixer and shook it vigorously, trying hard to push the images of a very exposed Steve Rogers out of his mind, and strained it into six glasses. Oh, shit, he mixed the Curacao in it already, didn't he? Cleaning out the mixer, Tony washed out and rinsed the glasses again, before dropping one of them.

"Oh, piss off, cosmos!"

"Hey, you need help in there," Steve yelled over the sounds of Clint's obscene guffaws at some self-deprecating joke Bruce probably told.

"No!"

"What are you mixing?"

"Stuff!"

"No, what?"

Steve stepped through the doorway, saw the mess on the floor, rolled his eyes, and got a dustpan. Steve had really, _really _nice ass.

"A Colombia."

"How do you make that?"

"You've never mixed a drink before?"

"No."

"Um, here. Six parts OJ, one part lemon juice, and two parts vodka. Just play it by sight, doesn't really matter. I usually throw in more OJ, it helps with the vodka. Throw it in the mixer, that big thingy over there" Tony pointed as he let Steve read the labels on the bottles and mumble to himself as he mixed his first drink. "Great, now shake it for about, ten seconds. A little harder, yeah. Okay, pour it out, hold the top, don't let the strainer fall out… okay, a little into each cup. Yup. Yup, just like that."

Tony smiled to himself. "Okay, now take one part grenadine, that redish thing over there, yup, and slide it down the side of the glasses. Here," Tony tipped the bottle as the red liquid snaked through the murky yellow-orange of the vodka/OJ/lemon juice and settled on the bottom. He watched as Steve repeated his actions to the other five.

"Now what?"

"Take that blue bottle and do the same thing."

Steve's ass should be preserved well into the future as a national monument. Or something.

"Like that?"

"Yup."

"So, why is it called a Colombia?"

"It looks like the flag of Colombia. Red, blue, yellow."

"Ah, I see."

"Serve it, before it mixes," Tony admonished gently as Steve took three glasses. He grabbed the other three. "Colombians, courtesy of Steve Rogers," Tony announced.

"Shit, Stark, I told you no girly drinks."

"Suck it up, bitch."

Natasha slugged him in the arm and drank her Colombian.

"So this is a cocktail? It looks nothing like what I expected, my friends."


	8. Quack

**A/N: After a lengthy, lengthy hiatus characterized by lack of sleep, TV binging and so much junk food Michelle Obama would vomit, I'm officially back! *****Commence the applause track***** I won't be posting as regularly or as frequently, but I do hope to keep on chugging along (and reviews and recs are always nice, send me a PM if you have a request). Oh my God I'm so rusty ._.**

Surprisingly, there were things that could faze Tony Stark, given the things those old eyes have seen.

The first of these things is an inside-out apple pie.

The second of which is a balloon version of Anne Boleyn.

The last, but far from least, is a buck-ass naked Steve Rogers.

"Grrk!"

Tony choked on the smoothie and coughed several times, pounding his chest and gripping the table next to him. The foam cup launched out of his hand and landed on the unforgiving floor, the cap falling off and the wet contents spilling out over the tile.

"Tony! Oh—let me get myself decent…"

Steve wrapped a towel around his torso and hauled Tony upright as the last bits of his failed attempt to enjoy a smoothie slithered out of his nose.

"I'll get that," he sighed, snatching another towel and wiping both the melting semi-liquid from the ground along with Tony's nose-slime. Tony sneezed once and tried to dry himself off, but Steve beat him to it, tossing the soiled towel into the hamper and grabbing a new one to wipe down Tony's chest, like a child that spilled its cereal. Who knew that Jamba Juice was so vicious?

"So what are you doing here?"

Steve grinned while toweling himself off, water from his straw-blonde hair dripping down into little puddles.

"I—um, just wanted to hand you the dossier for the next…thing," Tony finished, eyes wandering a bit too far south. He held out the dossier and Steve accepted it, setting it down onto the bench next to him.

"And this is?"

"Hmm? Oh, typical investigation; should be a cakewalk. Just you and Clint, though."

"Where?"

"We got hot activity in Ukraine. Not exactly sure what that 'hot' is, but blips have shown up in all our radars. Radiation spikes, minor of course, and the occasional disappearing ozone, but it happens."

"Ah."

Steve still had that slightly dazed but determined look that clung about him like a personal storm cloud. Poor Steve, really, waking up to find his world dead and gone and a bright, garish, dangerous one filled with people who have long passed him by.

"Dinner in twenty minutes, dress up, we're going somewhere nice today."

"Okay."

Tony walked out of the same door that he came from to the quiet sounds of Steve humming, but not before sneaking one more glance at that fine piece of ass over there.

* * *

"And then… and then he tries—can you believe this, he actually _tries_ to pry my faceplate off, I mean, what the hell, man? I'm fucking _Iron Man_, you can't just freaking pull my faceplate off, know what I mean?"

Tony's words slurred together as he babbled, but Natasha and Clint still giggled along. All three stumbled along the brightly-lit streets of New York. "Somewhere nice" had degenerated into throbbing music and too much bare skin, disco lights and cologne from Roman Republic-eras. A huge pulsing mess of music and mush and alcohol galore, to the extent that it was hard to take a few steps without slipping in the thin layer of grime that had accrued on the floor over the years.

"Hey, big guy, where do you think your going?"

Steve sighed. Fourth time in just as many minutes.

"Home, Tony, so we can get you some water and put you to bed before you wake up with a split skull."

"Hear that, pretty-boy, Steve's gonna' to take you home and cuddle!"

Natasha tittered to Clint's not-clever-at-all comment, her bare midriff and loose limbs already glued to his waist. They passed a scared-looking couple that cut a wide swath around them. Steve could see the logic in that; who wouldn't be terrified of a Goth hooker, a debauched executive and a man with a functioning bow strapped to his back staggering down the street with a storming mountain of a man dragging them along?

"So there was this one time—back in Malibu…or was it San Francisco? So anyway, I was at this bar, and these two guys came up to me and started getting a bit frisky—"

"Definitely San Diego."

"San Diego? I thought I said San Francisco," Tony slurred out, looking confused.

"No, he said San Diego."

"Eh. So anyway, here I was, with these two _huge_ guys just getting a bit too handy, and then this random chick comes and completely just _checks_ these two, like, think savage animal and fetal snarling."

"I think you mean feral," Steve cringed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. And I'm just like, 'Damn, shi—' Oof! Shit!"

Tony stumbled over a hitch in the sidewalk and brought Natasha and Clint crashing down with him. Instead of cursing like Steve expected, the two spies rolled over and kissed passionately, right there on the dirty sidewalk. Steve gaped and, keeping his temper in check, lifted them both up over both shoulders in a fireman's carry, dragging Tony behind him like a five year-old in a supermarket. And that's when the crying began.

As predicted, three people sported dark sunglasses and were surreptitiously covering their ears the next morning. Tony pulled back the stool slowly, wincing with every grinding, deafeningly painful screech it sounded as he dragged it across the floor. With a heavy thump, he sat himself down on the chair and sullenly picked at the crust of some toast.

"I hate all of you."

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee cup.

* * *

"Hey Steve, so I'm going to try this thing where I take all the coffee and replace it with instant hot chocolate. How does that sound?"

Steve straightened his back and heard an audible _crack_ as he jolted the vertebrae back into place. He had been on his hands an knees all morning after breakfast searching for that one book he had finished just up to the part where the father finds the mother and they kiss but then someone dies and the daughter and the boyfriend break up but then a dog comes in and they all love the dog instead and the mother suddenly has an affair with the neighbor's wife but it turns out it was a dream that the dog had. But he couldn't find the book anyhow and he would just ask Bruce for his credit card later (because Tony would just laugh for ten minutes about how he couldn't figure out Amazon).

"I think that's a terrible idea. Everyone would—"

"Quack."

An extremely intrusive, comical, and deep-voiced quack resounded in the room, cutting Steve off short. He looked at Tony. Tony shrugged back, visibly holding back laughter.

"What was that?"

"Don't look at me, I hate ducks."

Crawling around on his hands and knees again, listened with his ear plastered to the ground.

"Quack."

It came from the couch. Tony kicked a cushion.

"Quack."

It was on the ceiling.

"Quack."

The coffee table.

"JARVIS, are you doing this?"

"No."

"Quack."

"God, where is that thing coming from?"

"Quack. Quack."

"It feels like a—"

"Quack."

"—bomb about to go off."

"Quack."

"A du—"

"Quack."

"—ck bomb?"

"Quack. Quack. Quack."

"It's getting fast—"

"Quack. Quack."

"—er."

"Quack."

"I thought you were supposed—"

"Quack."

"—to be the smart one here, Tony. It stopped."

And alas, it did. They looked around for another twenty minutes, high and low, under couches, in lampshades, in ottomans.

But no one could figure out the source of the quack.


End file.
